A Shot In The Dark
by SassyJ
Summary: Zoe Morgan fixes problems, so does John Reese, but his methods are a little more physical, and they both have trust issues. A new number throws John and Zoe together again, this time they are going to have to break down their trust barriers to survive.
1. Driving Miss Morgan

Zoe fixes problems, she's very good at it and she doesn't need anybody's help to do it. Certainly not Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome, who saved her bacon and upset her equilibrium once before. Besides she has trust issues.

"What the hell are you doing here?" She growls. Resisting the urge to throw herself at him and devour him. Dammit, just why the hell did the man have to look so damn good. An image of chocolate body paint and a pair of handcuffs chooses that moment to insert itself into her mind.

"Pleased to see me, Zoe?" He stands there in front of her. Playing at Driver again. The plain black suit, the crisp clean white shirt, and the black tie, that's all it takes and she's putty.

But Zoe Morgan is no longer a schoolgirl. She's developed a few spikes of her own along the way. "Hmmm." She answers as she passes him and gets into the car. Proud of the accompanying sniff that announces to the world in general and John in particular that she's really not that concerned.

"Keep your eyes on the road, no small talk and definitely no jazz." She pulls three crisp notes out of her small bag, spreads them in a fan and flicks them a little to gain his attention as he slides in to the driver's seat. "Do as I say, and these will be yours at the end of the night." Three hundred bucks.

Damn, she's being bitchy and she knows it. But something about John and his smooth self-confidence just gets her dander up. For a second she thinks she can see a flash of hurt and disappointment in the somber blue-gray eyes, then he moves, and it was probably a trick of the light, and if anything that's more infuriating.

He drives. They have a long way to go. She's not really sure why she has taken this one on. Dining alone with this man far out of the city. Something wasn't playing right. She could smell it. But she's going anyway.

How and why John is there, driving her this night is a mystery. She's shut down conversation, not that that really makes a whole lot of difference. John and his 'imaginary' friend are two enigmas that she has yet to work out. And she knows that John will do exactly as he pleases.

_He's a little like a pet that you keep in the wild_. Her lips curve up at that thought. Something she is very loathe to admit, even to herself, is how truly glad she is to see John. There's something reassuring about his tall, lanky frame, and cool watchful demeanor. This night she knows she can use the reassurance.

She sits back and relaxes, lets John drive. After all, he knows where he's going and she could use the time to get her head in the right space, and mentally review the angles.

_Greenport. Miles from anywhere. Splendidly isolated_. She could smell trap coming off it in waves. But why, was the question.

The car slows, and she looks up, bemused to realize that they've been driving for over two hours and she hasn't noticed the time slip by. That would be because being within the vicinity of John, time gets compacted some how.

The house is huge and old, and rambling, and she has the weirdest vibe.

"How about I handle this one, Zoe." And that's the second time tonight that her soul has thrilled to the sound of her name on his lips. His voice slightly gravelly, distinctive, suits the man himself perfectly.

This is the second time that she is definitely going to decline that offer. This is her show. "No, John." She says firmly. Quietly thrilling to the sound of his name on her tongue. She tests it out a couple of times in her head.

An ordinary name to be sure, but it fits him. Direct, no nonsense. She thinks back to that night when she told him that he was one of those guys who can pick any lock with a paperclip, and the curve of his lips, the flash of straight white teeth told her that one tiny joke had penetrated his defensive barrier. She tried not to think of the way his blue-gray eyes lit up although he tried to hide that, the laughter lines at the corners crinkled a little, his lopsided grin was so damn sexy and endearingly off kilter.

He was one sexy, gorgeous guy and she almost wished she was in the market for such a person. John would be worth breaking her rules for.

She's distracted again and that is really beginning to annoy her. She steps past John and walks up the front steps, it's dimly lit and she can tell this is really not right. Stubbornly she walks on, there's nothing she cannot conquer, the man she is supposed to be meeting is seventy years old, and besides, John is there. What could possibly go wrong?

She knocks, and calls out "Hello", a voice comes from somewhere near the back of the house.

"Come in Miz Morgan."

She shrugs, she can see a light is on somewhere near the back of the hallway, but it barely penetrates the gloom at the front of the hall. Slightly irritated now, she pushes open the door and steps forward.

"NO." Suddenly John is there, his body between her and the interior of the hallway, and then it all happens so fast she doesn't know what hits them. There's a swish, an agonizing crunch, and John slips bonelessly through her startled arms to collapse at her feet.

"JOHN." Zoe screams his name in fear, and crouches down. Something cold and metallic scrapes her cheek. The threat is clear and she shakes her head in mute terror. He's helpless at her feet. She knows she will obey, because if they killed him then she would never be able to forgive herself.

The room is small, very dark and pokey and Zoe is grateful not to be the claustrophobic type. She doesn't have time to be claustrophobic, John is injured, he needs her and she needs him if she is going to get out of this one.

Apart from the act of extreme violence that captured them, they haven't been harmed. Just shoved roughly into the small room and locked in.

Zoe doesn't like to beg, but she needs to help John, she begs for a first aid kit. Grudgingly one is thrown in with them.

By the pathetic light of the one miserable bulb in the room, which turns out to be a sort of closet with a tiny sink in it, she sets about tending to and cleaning up John's head wound. Like all head wounds it's bleeding badly.

She calculates he's been out for about an hour. In the course of the clean up she finds a tiny flesh coloured earpiece, their phones have been taken from them, and his gun is gone too but the little earpiece is curiously comforting. Someone is looking out for them. John's imaginary friend.

John starts to come round, and Zoe backs off hastily, just in case he gets the wrong idea.

"John."

He groans, a hand goes to rub the back of his neck, and he blinks a few times.

"John." She puts a hand on his arm. "How are you feeling?" _Damn Zoe, that question is ridiculous_.

"Zoe." Her soul skips again at that quiet gravelly voice saying her name. _Stop it, Zoe, you're forty not fourteen._

She looks up at the door, "Let's get out of here." She looks hopefully towards him.

"That might be a bit of a problem." His voice is quiet, and a little too matter of fact. It sends Zoe's danger radar soaring.

"Why?" She tries not to sound too agitated.

"Because I can't see, Zoe."


	2. Booby Trap

"WHAT!" Zoe feels like screaming and panicking. She swoops down in front of him, John couldn't possibly be blind. She grabs him by the shoulders. Those beautiful blue-gray eyes are staring at nothing, but Zoe waves her hand in front of his face anyway.

He doesn't move, blink or flinch. It's true.

His hands come up to grab hers and he holds on strongly. "Zoe." Her breathing is fast and erratic, and she is clearly out of her mind with fear. John squeezes her fingers. "Zoe, listen to me. It's not permanent. I'm concussed. It's happened before AND IT WILL WEAR OFF."

She doesn't know whether to scream, cry or punch him. But her panic starts to die down a little. She can't think why she's panicking, John's blind and he's not panicking.

He's distressed though. Now that she's got a hold on herself, she is picking up the subtle signals. He's as tough as they come, but he's still human. This wave of sentiment swamps her, she wants to put her arms around him and take away his fear and pain, but that's never going to happen. He would find that almost as distressing as his sudden blindness.

So she does what she can, without stepping over a boundary that she knows she wouldn't want him to cross for her. She squeezes his fingers back. Tries to think of something logical to say.

"We still have to get out of here." He says.

"So you are going to have to teach me some of your finer ninja skills." She finishes. He smiles. She could drown in that smile. Dammit. Her fingers wander of their own volition to his cheek, her hand curves around his cheek and jaw.

It's a moment of truth. She knows now that she has breached his trust barrier, and she's let him into her heart too. They truly are in this mess together. She just wished that all of this was under less desperate circumstances.

"I can still pick locks," he says, "I just need you to help me negotiate the terrain." She can hear the stress in his voice, he's doing his best to mask it, but his defenses are a little shaky. She tries very hard not to draw attention to that.

Instead she helps him to his feet, and guides his hand to the door lock. She watches his long sensitive fingers examine the keyhole.

"I don't know if I should be relieved you can be so calm about this, or horrified that it's such a regular occurrence it doesn't faze you?" Her own voice is none too steady.

_Keep things as normal as possible_. He was trying to. His head was pounding and he was blind. Not quite totally blind, but his vision was severely distorted, he could just about make out outlines, Zoe was a brown formless blur.

The thing he is keeping from her, was that last time it took three days to recover from concussive blindness. He knows he doesn't have three days. He had to get them out of there and find a way to protect Zoe even though he can't see the threat.

He reaches into his sock and pulls out his spare lock picks. He can do it all by touch, like he can strip all his weapons simply by feel. He can even shoot and hit targets based on sound and direction, but that doesn't make him any less nervous.

He'd give quite a lot for Finch's voice in his ear right now, as he carefully picked the lock, put his hand on the handle. Zoe's hand covered his, "my turn," she whispers, her hand slides around his wrist, and she gently pulls him back behind her.

Protecting him.

It's weird that feeling. He's so used to doing the protecting. He laughs a little at that.

She hears that breathy laugh, more of an exhale than a laugh, and she hears the nervousness in it. Now it's her turn to protect and reassure.

Cautiously she opens the door. There's absolutely nothing behind it. In fact, she would be ready to swear that they were alone in the house. Which doesn't really make a lot of sense.

"I think we're alone now." She takes his hand and guides him into the hallway. As they pass what Zoe can see is the kitchen, she can see an old-fashioned reel to reel tape machine on the bench. That's weird. But if they really are alone in the house, this is the time to make a quick getaway, not puzzle out what that old machine is for.

She leads him to the front door. No sounds anywhere other than their footsteps.

She's about to open the front door, when he puts his free hand on her arm. Shakes his head. She guides his hand to the handle, watches his fingers as they brush carefully around the area of the handle and the door frame, his hand pauses. She looks closely at the tiny little wire that is sticking out of the door frame.

"Booby-trap." John says.

"Back door." She asks, pressing a little closer a little closer to John.

He shakes his head. "Back to the closet."

She looks puzzled.

"Trust me?" He says.

"You know I do." She's not quite satisfied with the way her voice cracks as she says it, but she knows he understands and he won't take advantage of that.

Whatever else he's likely to take advantage of, what goes down here stays between them. She leads him back to the closet. One small, narrow window. "You've got to be kidding me. How did you even know that was here?"

"Good guess."

She narrows her eyes at that. John isn't a guesser. "You've been here before." She says accusingly, narrowing her eyes. Realizing with a skewer jab to her heart when his expression doesn't change, that he can't see her. _Shit_.

He has, but he really doesn't want to talk about that, even if he could. "If I was doing this, I would have booby-trapped all doors and windows. But I'm going on a little faith here, that they will be too sloppy to have covered all the bases." She guides his hand to the window frame, he feels all around it, finds the catch, "the moment of truth," he pushes it open.

It isn't a large window. "Do I go first?" She peers out doubtfully. John takes hold of the frame and effortlessly swings his legs out. Slides to the ground, "guess the answer's no." Zoe grouches. She isn't at all happy with climbing out of the window, especially as her skirt is tight and short, and she doesn't have John's long legs. Nor his surprising flexibility. She makes a mental note to up her yoga attendance, as her six foot two companion slipped through the small space like he was taking a stroll in the park, while her slender, five foot six frame struggled to get out.

For a brief evil moment she is almost grateful that he can't see her struggle, her legs waving in the air, and make a less than dignified landing outside the window. Then she lands, turns round, catches him staring into nothingness. The frown on his face

John has coped with wounds and injuries in the field before, his distorted sight is the least of his current problems. His head is swimming, and he knows he is actually fading quite fast. He needs to get Zoe to safety and contact Harold.

* * *

Finch is worried. Two hours and no contact. Something is very wrong. John is as reliable as clockwork. But he's with Zoe. Finch does not entirely trust the woman. She likes to turn things to her advantage. John does not need more trouble.

Finch worries when John's out of contact. It doesn't matter how experienced his ex-CIA, former special forces' op is, John's put his life on the line more often than Finch really wants to think about.

Finch wants to help the numbers. Save people. But over the time they've been together, he's come to realize that saving John Reese's life is just as important as the lives of the numbers. John wasn't just an asset, or an employee anymore. He was a friend too.

"Where are you, Mr Reese?"


	3. In the chill of the night

It's cold, Zoe has lost track of time, but she guesses that it has to be at least ten or eleven pm. The only part of her that is actually warm is her hand clasped in John's.

"Which way?"

He tells her that they need to find a road.

They need to get out of there. Zoe can tell that John is really feeling his injury. He's hurting and there's nothing she can do about it.

It's so cold, that the sound of the helicopter doesn't register at first. Then they hear it.

Somehow Zoe knows that this is not a good development. "We need to hide." She looks around frantically, something is coming up the road, she can see two sets of headlights, the chopper is behind them. It's the beach or the pond and there's no cover.

"We have to swim for it." He says.

This is a nightmare, and she isn't sure she is going to wake up from it. There was a small dock, she leads him out onto the dock, and they quietly slip into the water. It's freezing.

"This is insane." Her teeth are chattering so hard she can barely speak.

"No choice." He's slurring his words, and the cold can't be good for his head injury. They can hear the shouts behind them, so they really do have no choice at all.

John swims slowly, Zoe easily keeping pace with him. Feeling like a little tugboat next to an ocean going liner steering him. When this is over, she is going to have a holiday. Somewhere warm.

Thankfully, the opposite shore isn't far, and it's also comfortingly dark. Zoe looks around, and slips on her high heels again. Everything is ruined, but shoes on her feet, however impractical and water-damaged, are better than her bare toes on the hard and stony ground.

"Telephone." She says to John. It's not a question, more a demand. He's swaying, and she realizes that while the swim may have taken them out of immediate danger from the people she can just about make out on the other shore, the cold and being wet through have taken a serious toll on John's reserves.

Zoe takes his arm then and drapes it over her shoulders again, mashes her body up to his, slides her arm around his waist. Some shared bodily warmth, a positive mental attitude, and she hopes that a casual glance at the two of them looks like a loved up couple out for a stroll.

It doesn't take her long to figure out that John's calm stoicism is concealing the extent of his injuries. Aside from his sight, she can tell his balance has been affected, the cold swim has done nothing good for his head injury. Silently she promises him that a warm bed and plenty of tlc is his in the immediate future if only he can manage to keep going now.

Now the only warm part of her is the side that is mashed up to John. Being crushed that close to Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome is having an effect on her own psyche. She's a hard-nosed business woman. John's an asset that she won't hesitate to exploit.

Until he took a hit for her. The blow that felled him would probably have crushed her skull, killing her instantly. That it didn't kill John was probably the height and angle difference.

John stumbles. Now she's really scared. A thousand things run through her mind, and suddenly she's a little girl again, losing her father. Something warm runs down her cheek, it takes a while for her to realize that it's a tear. She's crying, and Zoe never cries. She doesn't even know if her tears are for herself or the exhausted, injured man that she's trying to prop up.

John is freezing cold, his head is pounding, his vision is a little better, the outlines are less fuzzy, but they are still only outlines. He wants to stop being a burden to Zoe. He knows that it's only a matter of time before someone figures out that they crossed the pond.

"Leave me." He says, gritting his teeth to get the words out.

"WHAT!" It's almost a shriek, but she catches it at the last second, not wanting to draw attention to them. She half turns in his arm, her free hand goes to his chest, he can feel the spread of her fingers through the damp material. "I'm not leaving you." She sounds pissed, he almost smiles at that. "I leave you, and they catch you and kill you, and then you are on my conscience for the rest of my life." She shakes her head, the movement is a blur to John, "we are in this together. To the bitterly cold end."

He actually does smile at that. He's about to fall on his face, and he can still find the energy to smile. Zoe doesn't know whether to kiss him or kill him.

Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome is making her feel things that she has resolutely avoided feeling her entire life. Dammit.

She is freezing cold, and she knows that this cold is sapping her strength too. They need to find a phone now, John needs to contact his people, and they need to get out of this mess.

They continue across the sand, to reach the street, which curves around towards the beach. If there's going to be a phone anywhere, there is bound to be one on the beachfront.

* * *

Finch knows that something has gone really wrong, he also knows that Reese and Zoe were headed towards Greenport. Accessing the cameras in another jurisdiction was a headache he really didn't need.

As a scientist and programmer, Harold Finch really doesn't like the concept of a hunch. That belongs to the dubious delights of the detective novel. Scientists dealt in proof.

Right now Harold Finch is dealing in a hunch because this is his partner, and John Reese is the most predictable, unpredictable operative he's ever dealt with. It doesn't occur to Harold at this moment that John Reese is the _only_ ex-CIA/Special Ops soldier he's ever dealt with. Nor does it matter that John's supposed to be his employee. Harold cares. He never meant to care that much, but he does and there it is.

Mercifully, he finds the camera feeds fairly simple to access. The cameras themselves don't provide as much coverage, but he can extrapolate.

* * *

Zoe finds a phone. But it's beneath a street light, right out there in the open. Logically, the moment they walk out into that light, they will be exposed. They are cold, exhausted, and John cannot see. Help is in sight, but getting to it is a risk.

Zoe calculates risk every day. But this is a bit different. She doesn't give a damn who is after them, and what these people might want. She's just following the most primal need an animal has. To get to sanctuary.

She can't see anyone lurking out there. She has no doubt, that John would be able to see and calculate the threat, but since John can't see, they are going to have to go on her judgment.

Aching with fear, Zoe steps away from the cover of the shadows thrown by the building. There's no one about, it must be a lot later than she calculated.

She has lost all track of time now, she only knows that the longer they stay out, the harder it is to keep moving and stay awake. If they stop and sleep, they're dead.

They reach the phone, if he could see, John would be able to do something with the wiring, but in his condition, they will be lucky if he can get the number. Zoe's fingers are stiff with cold. John is barely awake, and running on empty, but somehow she rouses him enough to get a number. She dials it. Hears it ring. Hopes that John's imaginary friend can work out that it has to be them, someone answers and the pips cut in.

The moment of truth.


	4. Dread and Fear

The moment the cell rings next to him, a wave of something that feels very much like relief as Harold Finch grabs for the phone.

He presses the call back button. "Mr Reese."

Up till now, Zoe Morgan doesn't know John's surname. _Reese_. She smiles, despite the fear and the cold, and the worry. It suits him.

"Zoe Morgan, Mr er…"

"Finch." There's a precise fussiness about his voice, it's cultured, intelligent sounding. Not the usual government drone.

She's dying a little here, John's silent, swaying with exhaustion, and she's speculating about the voice on the other end of the phone.

"We need help, John's hurt."

"Can you stay where you are?" He catches on quick and doesn't ask pointless question, she'll say that much for John's imaginary friend.

She glances around "It's open, we're exposed."

"I can get a boat to you in roughly an hour." A pause. "How badly is Mr Reese hurt?" She can hear it in his voice, a fear for John. That says more to Zoe than anything. Whatever the working relationship is between John and his imaginary friend. The imaginary friend cares for Mr Reese.

A gust of wind whips up and freezes her flesh, and she shivers. Is it just the wind or is it fear? "John was hit on the head. He… he can't see." Her voice trembles.

"I will be there as fast as I can." He says, his voice reassuring, "stay hidden and stay safe Miz Morgan."

Zoe looks around wildly. _Stay SAFE?_ There's no cover, there's a short pier the end of which is shrouded in darkness, other than that there's the sea front, all colourful looking shops and diners, and street lights.

"The dock."

Zoe looks up, startled. His words are slurred. John is swaying, he can hardly hold himself up, he's shivering with the effects of his head injury. For the first time since he was hit, Zoe faces the truth. John could die here.

The fear that darts through her causes Zoe to sway herself, buffeted by the realization if John dies, something will be gone from her hollow life that can never be replaced. She has no idea what she is to him. A case, a problem to be fixed or something deeper. It really doesn't actually matter that much. Whatever he feels for her, she knows she cannot let him die. Saving John would make her horrible, graceless, shallow life worth living.

She fixes other people's problems for a price; but she cannot fix herself. She's been running away from herself for so long, she can barely recognize the signs.

Until Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome exploded into her life, Zoe has never questioned her choices.

She slides closer to him again, his arm settles clumsily over her shoulders, she tries not to think about what that might mean, John is grace itself, she puts her own arm around his waist, her free hand on his chest again, and they stumble away from the phone and head towards the end of the little pier.

They reach the end and John sags against the railings. He looking down into the water, even though she knows he can't see it. "Climb down." He says.

Zoe stares down into the inky blackness, she can hear the movement of the waves below the dock, "down there?" her voice is small, and tight and frightened. John swings a leg over the railing. _He's doing it, and he's lost co-ordination and he can't see…_ Zoe scrambles after him, if she doesn't give herself any time to think about the terror of what they are doing.

Survival, that's all that matters.

They are barely a couple of feet above the menacing waves. John sits on a cross-member, and grips the vertical for support. Zoe scoots up close, wraps her arms around John, and locks her fingers around the vertical. It's cold, and slimy and disgusting, and her short skirt doesn't quite cover her ass sufficiently as the backs of her legs come into contact with the disgustingly slimy cross-member. She doesn't want to think about it, she buries her face against his damp shoulder and clings like a limpit.

Five minutes, or may be five hours, pass. She can think of nothing but John and her grip on the disgusting bar that is holding them up. He's talking to her, but his words are so soft and so slurred she can't make them out. But he's talking, he's alive and conscious and they are going to make it. Because Zoe fixes problems, she's very good at it, and this is just another problem.

Footsteps above them.

Zoe clings tighter, shrinking in fear against John.

Heavy footsteps. She chances a glance upwards. Through the gaps in the boards above her head she can see a figure. Then two. They seem to be looking out to sea, she sees a torch.

They're tucked under the dock, but if that torch is panned downwards Zoe knows they will be seen. John is silent. His ninja senses have detected the threat. Or that's what she tells herself, the other thought is too terrible to contemplate.

The men linger for what seems like hours. Finally, they turn away. Footsteps retreat, and Zoe thinks that she is just going to faint away from the shock.

They're alone again.

If she could only let go of the vertical bar, she could check John out, feel his pulse. He is breathing, she knows that, but his breathing is shallow and she knows he could lose consciousness at any moment.

She doesn't dare let go, even to do that. Instead she tightens her grip, he's slumped against the vertical, which is a good thing, it's supporting his weight; so she hangs on and prays. Prays for John, prays for Finch to find them, prays that their enemies do not return because John's out cold and she barely has the strength of a kitten now.

There's a noise in the distance somewhere off to her left, out to sea. Her mind tries to process what it might be, but her thought processes seem to be as frozen as her body.

The thump of the engine grows louder as her mind finally manages to work out that it's a power boat of some kind. Her first thought is that the men that were on the dock above them have worked out where they must be.

Mentally she tries to prepare herself to fight them off. Something's moving in the water in front of them. "Miz Morgan", the voice is soft, not the one on the phone and she tenses again. "Mr Finch sent us."

She has to go on faith, she's too tired to hold on any longer. Hands reach around hers and gently pry her fingers loose.

Zoe lets go, she's falling, she can't hold on any longer. The last thing she feels is her body being lowered gently into the bottom of a boat.


	5. Warmth and Fairytales

The pillows are soft, and the quilt very warm, Zoe squirms appreciatively. This is nice. She snuggles down. She's dry and warm. So much better than being freezing and wet.

She rubs her hands up and down her arms a little, savouring the sensation. She's wearing something soft and fleecy. She frowns, she doesn't remember that.

_John?_

Zoe opens her eyes. She's lying in a large double bed in a room she's never seen before.

She sits up. Stares down at the soft fleecy cream coloured pyjamas that she knows she doesn't own. She throws back the quilt, she doesn't remember the bedsocks either.

The ensemble isn't especially elegant, but it's very warm, and since the last thing she remembers was being a frozen popsicle in a ruined black cocktail dress, she has time to be very grateful for the warmth.

Now she has to get up and go and find John.

There's a robe hanging on the back of a chair, the room is expensively and conservatively furnished, a classic guest room she guesses. Wondering if the exquisite taste belongs to John's imaginary friend? Not so imaginary now. She's heard his voice.

She gets to her feet, still feeling a little light headed, and her body aches from her exertions.

The hallway is neat and conservatively furnished like her bedroom. Zoe glances across to a doorway diagonally across from hers. It's partially open and she thinks she can hear movement.

Very cautiously, she pushes on the door.

It's another bedroom, richly furnished, and it's John lying in the bed. A smaller, older man is changing a drip bag attaching the line to the drip in John's arm.

She watches him smooth the sheet carefully down. She's close enough to see his face, the tense expression, the way he looks. There's nothing romantic about the way he touches John, more the way a father would touch a beloved son. The impression is sealed when he smoothes John's hair back off his forehead, the look in Finch's eyes is sorrow and guilt.

Somehow she knows that this is Finch.

"Come in, Miz Morgan." That quiet, precise, cultured voice. Definitely Finch.

"How is he?" Zoe's voice isn't quite steady, and Finch motions her to a chair close to the bed.

"John has a serious concussion, and your swim in the cold has given him a chest infection too. You are lucky to have avoided such an infection yourself." Finch's hand gently brushes Zoe's forehead, as her hand reaches blindly for John's. John's fingers are warm, but limp beneath hers. There's a neat white bandage around his head, his face is relaxed in sleep, his long black eyelashes motionless against his impossibly high cheek bones. His skin is pale, with a slight flush of fever.

She can hear the slight wheeze in his breathing which is obviously due to the infection, but it's curiously reassuring. _He's alive_.

She leans forward. This is like Sleeping Beauty in reverse. Zoe's Prince has been cleaned up, and dressed in dark red silk pyjamas. In repose, he's quite the most beautiful guy that Zoe has ever seen.

He took that hit for her, and the hard-nosed business woman knows that she will never exploit John or Finch now.

She's still feeling the aftereffects of her experience, because she remembers then that she never asked about John's sight, and Finch didn't mention it.

She transfers her grip on John's hand to her left hand, and puts her right hand up to caress John's cheek. She looks up, her eyes brimming with tears. She knows Finch is smart, and he proves it when he shakes his head, he knows what she is asking him.

Zoe looks down at John, _please no_.

Finch moves to reassure her. "No, no, Miz Morgan, the doctor assures me that Mr Reese will make a full recovery. His sight has improved already." He places a soft blanket across her lap. "Something tells me that ordering you back to your bed now will have no affect. And Mr Reese is in need of something that I cannot provide."

Zoe really doesn't know what to think about that cryptic utterance, but she wants to stay so she lets Finch take care of her. If that is the price of a ticket to John's bedside, and she wants to be there when he wakes up, because she needs to know that he's all right.

And sometimes it's nice to be taken care of.

Finch says something about food, but Zoe barely hears him. John shifts in his sleep, his eyelashes flicker. She leans forward, whispers his name, squeezes his hand between both of hers. But he settles back.

There's this heavy weight somewhere around her heart. Now that she's safe in the apartment with Finch she knows that nothing is going to happen right now. She has time to think, time to grieve and time to let go of her fear.

Holding John's hand is all that she can actually manage. Finch is right, she's weak and tired.

Finch reappears with a tray, he puts a folding table in front of her, and lays the tray down on it. Draws her attention to the tablets and the glass of water that he's put on her tray. Doctor's orders.

Obediently, Zoe swallows the tablets. Finch has made soup, it's thick and comforting and warming, and despite her avowed intention not to eat, Zoe finds that she's ravenous. Chicken soup and crackers have never tasted better.

Zoe never eats pudding, but Finch has made something soothing and she's hungry so she eats it. Replete, she rests against the back of the chair, her fingers curled around John's.

She's dimly aware that the blanket now has the addition of a soft, plush comforter that's keeping her warm, and Finch has carefully placed a pillow where it will support her neck. Finch's nursing skills are good, she wonders in a vague sort of way where he came by them.

Zoe's too tired to think. She leans back, closes her eyes.

She wakes to sound and movement, for a second she wants to pull the covers right up over her head and pretend in the hope that whoever it was would go away.

Reluctantly she opens her eyes.

He's sitting up, propped up by several pillows. He has a tray across his lap, and Finch is coaxing him to eat something.

She wants to throw herself headlong into his arms. But this is John, and she would never… could never do that.

"John." Her voice is scarcely above a whisper, but his eyes turn towards her. He can see. The relief rockets through her.

"Oh John." Her voice is tight with tears, and he reaches over to take her hand, pulls it up, and drops a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

"You might let me handle it next time," he whispers.

She nods. Whatever he says. Tears running down her cheeks. Those beautiful blue-gray eyes are looking at her, and that's all she can think about, so she'll agree to anything he wants.


End file.
